


All Mine

by Batsymomma11



Series: Lord Kal [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types, Justice Lords - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Dark, Blood and Violence, Bruce Has Issues, Bruce Needs a Hug, Character Death, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, Justice Lords Universe, M/M, Murder, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Violence, Suicidal Thoughts, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 04:21:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15811230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: Clark Kent is dead. Lord Superman has taken his place and finds Lord Batman to be the perfect party to suffer his rage and attentions on. Bruce is faced with the choice of taking his own life or the that of the man he thought was his greatest friend to survive it.





	All Mine

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING--contains rape/non-con. Though each depiction is not as detailed as it could be, this will definitely be a trigger for anyone who has a history. Please be careful and forewarned of this. There are also suicidal themes present.
> 
> This story was extremely difficult to write. It's a dark one. Twisted and ugly. I tried not to spare the grotesqueness of it from the story while still keeping things somewhat brief. 
> 
> I do not own DC or its characters. But I do own the story. The plot-line and its characters may not be exactly canon.  
> Thank you for reading.

            “Lord Batman, I want to see you in my quarters directly after this meeting.”

            A pair of opaque lenses looked up from the table and stared blandly at Superman’s vivid blue. There was little if any emotion. “Of course.”

            “Wonder Woman, I want you in Star City within the hour.”

            “It would be beneficial to have your presence there as well. Any resistance would be easily intimidated.”

            Superman lifted a brow, “As one of my top commanders, I’m certain you can handle everything on your own. If you feel you need someone for assistance, Jordan would be adequate. I have pressing business here to attend to.”

            Wonder Woman’s gaze briefly flickered to Batman’s, her lips tightening into a scowl. But she remained wisely silent. It was long understood that whatever went on between Lord Batman and Lord Superman was not the business of the other Lords. Though it was common knowledge that it was rife with darkness.

With all major business discussed, Superman stood, ending the meeting and strode out of the commons. The rest of the group remained a breath, perhaps two, then moved quietly to stand and leave as well. Batman was the last to leave.

            It was late afternoon and the sun’s haze burned brightly through the Watch Tower’s windows, any trace of day or time, an abstract concept beneath the blanket of stars.

            Batman walked quickly down the long hallways that would take him to Superman’s quarters and paused only briefly to study the still hanging portraits of the JLA from years previous. They looked nothing like themselves anymore. No one did.

            He didn’t need to be reminded of that.

            Batman pressed a thumb on the keypad to the private quarters, took a silent steadying breath, then walked carefully into Superman’s private quarters. In here, very little had changed since the conquering. Kal-el had kept much of the same artwork on the walls and still had a penchant for labels. A small sofa facing the starboard viewing deck was decorated with red and white pillows. A throw blanket in black was carelessly draped over the desk chair that was pushed flush to a massive glossy black desk.

            It would have looked domestic and warm, if not for the knowledge that its decorator was anything but.

            The air smelled like Kal’s soap. Woodsmoke and vermouth.   

            It made Batman nauseas.

            “Bruce, you came.”

            Batman’s shoulders stiffened, his hands lightly fisting as he turned and found Kal-el striding out of the cabin’s bedroom. He’d changed out of the white and black uniform of the Lords and was now wearing a plaid shirt with jeans. A long-lost nod to his former self. Clark.

            Clark Kent had been gone for a long time. 

            It caused a strange lump to form in Batman’s throat and he immediately did his best to stifle it.

            Sometime around Kal’s first and fiftieth kill, Bruce had stopped seeing the man in front of him as his friend and had started to realize that Clark was just another victim to this crusade. That everything he’d thought to hold dear, had slowly been torn away from him. That his best friend was now a frightening killer with a hair trigger temper that got off on pain. Bruce’s or anyone’s. It didn’t seem to particularly matter.

            “Of course.”

            Kal sighed, stepping close, brushing both hands lightly down Batman’s gauntleted arms. “You should change.”

            Batman frowned, “I’m fine.”

            “Change.”

            There was little room for argument. Little room to say that he wasn’t comfortable with Kal in anything but his armor, and even then, that felt too thin. Even still, Batman found his feet moving to the open bedroom door where he found a pair of sweats and a t-shirt draped over the bed for him. It didn’t matter that they were Kal’s clothes. He was expected to wear them, so he would.

            Or he’d suffer the consequences.

            Batman began dismantling the uniform, vaguely aware of Kal’s watchful gaze as he did so. His mind drifted during the task, thoughts numb and slow.

            Had he really become so weak that he had no care for himself? That he’d let Kal throw him around? Let him dictate his every move? Let him—

            “Bruce, you look distracted. Tell me, what’s on your mind.”

            “Nothing.”

            There was a rush of air, then Kal’s fingers were digging into Bruce’s chin and he was forced to look up into those eerie stranger’s eyes. “You lie.”

            “You. I was thinking about you.”

            “What about me?”

            “You wouldn’t like it.”

            Kal laughed, “I might. Try me.”

            A pause, another implicit threat when the grip tightens painfully, then, “Everything is so different than it was.”

            Kal’s expression softened, “Yes. It is.”

            Bruce nodded, carefully tugging his chin away then quickly donned the sweats. He’d only just tugged them up over his hips when Kal took his hand and pulled him out of the bedroom towards the sofa at the viewing deck. Bruce said nothing when he seated them both. Nothing still when he forced Bruce to remain at his side, pressed in close, his hand painfully tight in Kal’s.

            He’d grown accustomed to Kal dragging him around and behaving erratically.

            “I come here to think.”

            Bruce swallowed, looking askance at Kal, working to loosen the grip on his fingers just a little, “It’s a good spot.”

            “Yes. It is.”

            They stayed silent for minutes, the steady cadence of breath the only calming aspect to their encounter. But Bruce could feel his unease ratcheting the longer they remained still. The longer Kal simply didn’t speak. He always talked. Always taunted. Always had something to say to him now.

            It had begun with the punishments.

            Bruce had known something was different between them after the Fall when Clark had first ordered him whipped for disobedience. He’d been stunned. Angry. Humiliated. And then shamed as he’d been forced to take a beating the likes of which he’d never experienced. Clark had been stoic during the ordeal but after it was finished there had been no mistaking the flare of excitement in his blue gaze when at the end, Bruce was hauled to his feet and told to apologize. The darkness he’d born witness to then, had only grown.

            The punishments had grown more frequent. And Clark, had slowly died to give birth to Kal. Bruce knew no other way to see it. It was simply that his greatest friend had died and been taken over by the creature that enjoyed playing with him and the people of earth.

            Much of Bruce was convinced that the man Clark was friends with, might have died right along with.

            Time had proven that Kal was not a merciful leader.

            He was vengeful. Harsh. Brutal.

            He enjoyed killing and suffering even more so. He liked to make others bleed and if they screamed, then all the better for it. He liked making Bruce submit and he liked it even better when he had to work to make him do it.

            They’d come to an uneasy understanding of each other over the last year. Bruce suffered the punishments with as much dignity as he could muster, because if he did not, Kal would do far worse than simply hurt him. He’d hurt the Waynes. He’d go after Alfred or Damian or Dick. He’d take something precious and vital to Bruce, because he could. Because he considered himself a God. Unreproachable. Perfect. Infallible.

            The hand wrapped in his own slowly began to loosen and Bruce sighed in relief as he flexed his sore fingers. Kal said nothing, merely stared at the expanse of stars, his eyes distant. And they remained another moment until Bruce shifted on the sofa, hopeful he might be excused, then Kal blinked back to him, a slow smile stretching his mouth.

            “Going somewhere?”

            “If you’ve no need of me, I thought I might go down to the labs. I have work to do.”

            “What work? All the crime in Gotham has been eradicated.”

            “Even still, there are things I can be doing. And I should be going home. The boys could use a visit.”

            Kal’s nose wrinkled. “They get enough of your time.”

            “Kal--.”

            A hand shot forward and found the soft skin of Bruce’s neck with rough fingers and the air of the room abruptly shifted to sour. Bruce instinctively clawed at the grip, unable to gain even a sip of oxygen, then gasped and coughed as the pressure suddenly loosened nearly a minute later.

            “Don’t back-talk. It isn’t pretty on you.”

            Bruce rubbed at his neck, still sucking down air in greedy mouthfuls.

            “Oh, come on,” Kal snapped, grabbing a fistful of Bruce’s t-shirt, “It wasn’t that bad.”

            “I—I’m sorry.”

            “Good. Because I want to be in a good mood for this.”

            Kal shifted on the sofa, gripping Bruce by the shoulders to draw him nearer, so near there was only a breath between them. Alarm made Bruce rigid, his breath shuttering to a stop to avoid sharing the same air as Kal. It felt intimate and frightening.

            This close, he could see the starburst of blue around his pupils. Pupils which were wide and dilated. He could smell that woodsmoke scent, near overpowering in its potency and feel the unnatural heat of Kal’s body. Those fingers were bruising his upper arms, reminding him of the impossible strength that lay in front of him.

            Reminding him of the dangerous game Kal had been playing for months.

            Kal leaned further still, a wicked grin marking his mouth, then whispered into Bruce’s ear, “I think we’ve waited long enough, don’t you?’

            Gooseflesh prickled up both of his arms and Bruce’s heart started skipping about in his chest. “What?”

            “Aren’t you tired of pretending? Tired of fighting me?”

            Bruce frowned, unsure of why he was afraid of answering. Kal didn’t appear to really need to hear his answer, because he kept talking.

            “We keep dancing around this. Keep ignoring the sizzle in the air--.”

            “No.”

            The word was out before it could be properly analyzed and Bruce went stalk stiff as those glowing eyes narrowed on him.

            “No?”

            “I—” heart slamming, breathing backing up in his lungs, Bruce wanted to run. He’d never wanted to run more in his life than now. “I said no.”

            There was such a long a break in response that Bruce wasn’t certain he’d even said the words for a moment. Then Kal started to laugh. He laughed low and deep at the first, then curled into Bruce’s shoulder and laughed so hard it shook them both.

            “Oh Gods, how you make me laugh.”

            Bruce’s stomach was folding in on itself.

            “Oh Bruce,” Kal lifted his head, eyes bright and hollow, “You didn’t think I was asking, did you?”

            A shiver rushed over his spine when Kal’s fingers dug into a hip, their heat and pressure painful through his sweats. The shift of power in the room was dark and heavy, so very strong that Bruce felt himself being pushed into the sofa with little more than a refusing grunt passing his lips.

            He was motionless for a brief second, his thoughts abruptly still when Kal’s mouth crushed onto his, then when time snapped forward and he felt a tongue try to press at him, Bruce struck out. His knuckles hit steel and sang with pain.

            He kicked both legs, uselessly, drumming his heels into the sofas as the mouth on his simply devoured without pause. A deep rumble passed from Kal’s mouth into his own and Bruce panted from breath.

            “No. Please, Kal. No.”

            “You knew this would happen. You’ve known it from the start. It will be easier if you don’t fight it.”

            “No,” Bruce hissed, pushing uselessly at the stifling weight, squirming for even an inch of purchase. There was none to be found.

            Kal sighed, smoothing a hand over Bruce’s hair, looking down at him as a parent might a naughty child. “You will only hurt yourself fighting me. You probably broke your hand.”

            Bruce couldn’t feel his hand yet. It was numb. He didn’t regret hitting Kal. He’d do it again and again and again if it meant not giving up. He’d fight until his last breath on this. He couldn’t lie here and take it without knowing he’d done something.

            Kal shook his head, then went back to kissing Bruce.

            The struggle became more violent.

            With panic clogging up his throat, Bruce fought like a man gone wild. He bit down on the tongue that forced its way into his mouth then cried sharply in pain when his teeth felt like he’d chomped concrete. Kal laughed again.

            Any inch Kal gave him, to tug down his sweats, to push up that t-shirt, Bruce fought. He hissed, he growled, he bellowed to be released. He said no so many times that his throat was damn near raw by the time the sickening sensation of acceptance flowed over him.

            He gave up at some point. He just laid there.

            He took it.

            It hurt. It wasn’t pleasant. There was nothing pleasant about it. Kal made sure of that.

            He didn’t want any of it. But he was forced to realize that in this new reality, Bruce Wayne was simply not strong enough to stop the inevitable. Kal took what he wanted. And no one could stop him.

            There was something very hollowing and

            When it was done, Bruce was left sweat-streaked and pale on the sofa. His sweats were torn and the t-shirt was still rucked up under his arm pits. He couldn’t bring himself to move for the first five minutes after Kal left. He knew it was going to feel like hell to do so.

            He didn’t cry until he got halfway back to his own quarters and the sticky feeling between his legs was too much ignore. He stopped in the hall, braced one hand on the wall, and vomited everything from his stomach. Coffee and a cocktail of medications. It burned coming up and it burned worse coming out his nose.

            Tears had started blurring his vision and as he scrambled to get inside his room, they fell freely. His torn sweats fell off of him in his haste to get to the bathroom and he tripped clumsily on the bathroom rug. He didn’t get the water adjusted right before throwing himself beneath the spray, but the scalding heat felt good on his frozen skin. He was shaking so badly, his legs too weak to stand, so Bruce collapsed against the wall and let the tremors run their course.

            Strange hiccupping sounds, somewhere between a gasp and groan were coming from his chest and Bruce did his best to ignore them. He struggled to remember his training. To remember how to dissociate and for a few minutes, it worked well enough. He slipped inside his mind and hid within the dark folds of it. He forgot everything and everyone. Especially himself. Especially those sky-blue eyes that had peered down at him as they’d taken the last shred of his dignity.

            Bruce ground his teeth when a sob broke the seam of his lips.

            Then anger, hot and knife-sharp blistered over his skin and Bruce felt himself slipping into the slippery depths of it. He embraced it, because God it felt better than the pain. Better than the betrayal that shimmered in his veins. He latched onto the rage and found himself pounding a fist into the shower wall until his knuckles were bloody. Until his voice was hoarse from screaming.

            He stayed under the water, soaking himself, soaking away Kal until the water grew cold and he with it.

            When he stumbled back to the bedroom, Bruce was numb again. Like before. Like he’d been only a handful of hours ago. It was a better place to be in. One he could cope with.

            He shuffled to his dresser, tugged out new sweats, a Gotham Knights hoody and thick socks. Once dressed, he crawled beneath the covers of the little twin-size bed, burying himself head-deep in the comforter. There was the faintest scent of the Tide laundry detergent that Alfred liked to use on the linens.

            Bruce’s chest twitched. The pain swelling, then falling.

            Numbness again. It felt good. It felt welcome.

 

            It was hours later when Bruce felt the mattress dip and the scent of woodsmoke flutter over him. He held his breath when a large hand came around his chest and tugged his back into Kal’s front.

            “You are mine,” the words whispered against the shell of his ear and Bruce cringed away. “Mine, Bruce.”

            “No,” he whispered back. And he knew that Kal heard him.

            But nothing happened. There was no sharp reprimand or punishing blow.

            Bruce waited for it, but it never came. Instead, he heard Kal’s breathing slow then even and it became blatantly apparent that he’d fallen asleep a moment later when the sound of a soft snore rumbled at his back.

 

            Bruce didn’t see Kal again for two days.

            And when he did, their encounter was brief and bloody.

            He was given three more days reprieve, then Bruce was being thrown into a storage closet at the Watchtower, pressed into the glossy concrete flooring. His world narrowed down to the sound of Kal’s labored breathing, to the tearing sensation in his middle and the throbbing of his pulse in his throat. Kal’s hands had wrapped around his neck and squeezed until he’d blacked out.

            When he’d woken alone, half-naked, and still on the floor, Bruce had barely been able to stand. His limbs had felt like rubber. His mind, distant. He’d scarcely managed to stumble to the Zeta tubes and get home. Once there, Bruce hadn’t even bothered to shower. He’d been too tired.

            No. Bruce had climbed into his bed, wrapped in the same Gotham Knights sweats from the first time, and had slept fitfully.

            He’d woken to Kal’s arm draped over him sometime in the night. He didn’t sleep again until dawn when Kal left.

            Bruce’s life began to revolve around Kal and when he would next show himself. He swung between panicked episodes of wondering when Kal would demand his pound of flesh to heart numbing pain when he was brutalized. He suffered silently. He told no one.

            The longer the treatment went on, the more he internalized. The more he wondered if there was a better option. If he should end himself so he could end the torment.

            Only the thought of the boys and what they might do stayed his hand.

            But on long nights, when Kal joined him in the aftermath of his touches, Bruce would lie awake imagining how he might kill himself. Imagining an end to it all.

            It was little comfort.

           

            Three months.

            God, three months.

            Where was Kal right now? Was he watching? Listening to what Bruce was saying even now?

            “Brucie? My God, you haven’t changed a bit.”

            Bruce blinked over the expanse of a buffet table and saw reporter Vickie Vale smiling widely at him. Her eyes were a unique shade of bottle green and looked wickedly down his frame. He merely lifted a brow, then forced a strained smile.

            “I would hope not.”

            “It’s been a while.”

            “Yes, it has.”

            She skirted the table, joining up with Bruce as he finished filling his plate with another shrimp canape. He wouldn’t eat any of it. Rarely was he hungry anymore. “We should catch up.”

            Bruce struggled through ten minutes of playful banter, but he ached to move further away from her. He didn’t like her hand on his arm. He didn’t like the man at his back, who laughed too loud and smelled like cheap cologne. Or the one at his right who kept staring and looking jealous. That Vickie was talking to him and not the other way around.

            These sort of things never used to bother him. Now they felt like splinters under too sensitive of skin.  

            His stomach tightened painfully when Vickie pressed onto her toes and attempted to be seductive as her lips brushed his ear. He jerked a little and stepped back, stuffing a trembling hand into his slacks pocket.

            “Not here.”

            “Oh? Somewhere else then?”

            Bruce swallowed thickly, “No. I’m—taking a break on the scene.”

            “What?” she pouted, ruby red lips sumptuous and inviting to any other man, “I thought I’d never hear that. Who’s the lucky girl?”

            Bruce’s heart squeezed painfully in his chest and even now, he wondered if Kal was listening in. It was paranoid at best. He knew it. But he couldn’t help the full body tremor that shook him to his core as he started to sweat at the prospect. Kal was a jealous man. And instinctively, Bruce knew the little softness he’d gained over the last three months would quickly be lost if he thought Bruce wasn’t being faithful to him.

            Not that what they had could be called a relationship. Even still, it was something. And that something was strictly off limits to outsiders. Kal wouldn’t merely punish him, he’d kill whoever else dared to be involved.

            “No one really. I just need a break from the dating scene. But when I’m back,” he winked carefully, “you’ll be one of the first I call.”

            She grinned then, all white caps and faux charm. It made Bruce sick. “You’re such a tease Bruce.”

            “Yes, Bruce,” a man’s gentle voice hummed over his skin from his right shoulder, “You’re such a tease.”

            Vickie lifted an appreciative brow, then wisely walked away.

            Bruce didn’t turn around. Nor did he address Kal as the alien circled to his front then smiled brilliantly. “You look dashing. As always.”

            “You can’t be here.”

            “Why?”

            Bruce looked down at the toes of his shoes, “I thought you wanted to keep us a secret.”

            “I did. But maybe I was wrong. I didn’t like how Vickie was looking at you. Maybe I need to stake my claim to prevent any further misunderstandings.”

            “I handled it,” Bruce turned, giving Kal his back though it made gooseflesh rise irritably on his skin and started walking to the restrooms. Kal kept pace, only a step behind him, dogging his heels all the way to the men’s room.

            Inside, Bruce went to the sink and immediately began splashing cold water over his feverish face. He was feeling sick again. Weak. Kal’s presence had this effect on him now.

            “Maybe we should go home.”

            Bruce lifted his gaze to look at Kal in the mirror and scowled, “You mean I should go home? To my house?”

            “What’s the difference? I sleep there almost every night.”

            Bruce ground his teeth, jaw flexing. Kal reach for Bruce’s shoulders and started massaging absently and it took everything in Bruce not to back away from the touch immediately.

            “You’re very tense.”

            “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

            “Why not? Clark Kent is still around. At least for show anyways.”

            “Don’t say his name,” Bruce rasped, closing his eyes against a wave of unwanted pain. Kal remained silent for a moment, those hands stilling and Bruce knew he’d made a mistake. He’d said too much again.

            “I don’t know why you keep fighting me.”

            “I will never stop.”

            “Why?” the word was suddenly sharp, the hands on him painful and Bruce sucked in a panicked breath a moment before Kal spun him. Pressed chest to chest, Kal backed Bruce straight into the wall knocking the hand-dryer off the brick in his anger.

            It crashed loudly to the floor and Bruce’s eyes darted to the door. If anyone heard them, they would come headlong into this…Kal would kill them.

            “I don’t want you.”

            Kal growled, lifting Bruce to his toes so they were eye to eye. “You do. You just deny it. You’ve always denied it. Even when I was Clark Kent you denied it. But you can’t now. Because you belong to me. I own you now.”

            Bruce opened his mouth to say no, because he would always say no. He would never stop saying it. But Kal crushed the words with his lips. The taste of his own coppery blood filled his mouth and Bruce squirmed for air, struggling futilely to push against the chest pinning him with both hands. It was like trying to beat himself against a brick wall.

            Kal only grew angrier the more Bruce fought.

            “Not here, please,” Bruce finally gasped when his mouth was free. But Kal’s eyes glinted dimly red, his expression distant and murderous. He wouldn’t hear him now.

            “You are mine Bruce.”

            “Please Kal, don’t do this here. Anyone could come in.”

            “If they do, I will kill them.”

            “No!”

            Kal bit down on Bruce’s neck, where the juncture of shoulder met soft skin, hard enough to feel it bleed and Bruce muffled a keening wail in Kal’s chest.

            “This could be so good between us. You could learn to love me. If you only let me have this, we could make this gentle. I could take you sweetly. But no,” Kal growled now, shredding Bruce’s tux into tatters, sending buttons flying over the tile floor. “You make it hard. You make me hurt you. You make me do this.”

            “Stop, please,” Bruce dimly mumbled now, his mind already dissociating. He’d gotten frighteningly good at detaching from his body once they were past the point of no return. He couldn’t control when it happened anymore. He didn’t particularly want to.

            Not if it meant being vividly aware of being fucked against the wall of the Grand Hotel’s bathroom.

            But Kal was more cruel than usual.

            And staying detached was harder.

            He wrenched on Bruce’s hair, tugging out pieces from the roots. He bit down on whatever skin he deemed unfit, marking pale flesh with bloody teeth marks. He choked Bruce until he saw black spots, then let him go until to start all over again.

            It took forever. It could have been minutes. Bruce couldn’t tell. He only knew that Kal was hissing obscenities in his ear, biting his left earlobe until it throbbed when it was finally over.

            Kal let him fall bonelessly to the floor. A quivering mass of skin and bone.

            Bruce’s eyes shuttered closed to block out the image of Kal breathing heavily over him. But it was burned into his retinas, with all the others.

            When Kal picked him up off the floor, Bruce only mumbled a faint protest before passing out.

            He was dragged into consciousness when he felt a wet rag being dragged over his skin later. He couldn’t tell how much time had passed. Bruce could only blink hazy eyes up to the double image of the man bathing him. The hands were soft on his skin. Not punishing. The eyes warm and achingly familiar.

            “Clark?”

            The hand that was on his arm disappeared and the image faded.

            “Clark? Please, don’t go,” Bruce called, his voice hoarse. Searching blindly through thick steam, Bruce jerked abruptly when he saw Kal striding back over to the edge of the bath tub.

            “Clark is dead Bruce.”

            Bruce settled back into the water, looking away as his eyes stung with tears. “I know.”

           

            Kal came to see him nearly every day. He didn’t always demand that they have sex, but he did want attention. He wanted to touch. To kiss. To be near Bruce as much as humanly possible.

            Bruce grew to simply ignore the feeling of constantly being watched.

            He still protested when Kal pushed him down and took what he wanted, but his cries had grown weaker and often were absent far sooner. It didn’t appear to matter to Kal that he’d been fucking a limp doll. It only mattered that he was conquering. That he was taking. Bruce was too numb to care anymore. Too numb to do much more than let Kal have his way if only to get it over with quicker.

            Alfred and the boys seemed unaware of the situation, though they were naturally concerned. His behavior had become even more distant. If they happened to notice he didn’t want to be touched in any way shape or form, they said nothing. If they noticed when he had to disappear suddenly because he was tripping headlong into a full panic attack, no one made mention of it.

            It made Bruce’s isolation worth something. Because he knew they were safe. Kal would leave them be.

            But that hadn’t stopped him from plotting his way to freedom.

            Either he was going to kill Kal, or he was going to force Kal’s hand into killing him.

            They could not go on like this forever. Bruce could not. He would not.

            It took Bruce the better part of a month to secretly dig up the shards of Kryptonite he’d buried so many years ago in the Abbey cemetery grounds. He’d all but forgotten about their existence until six months ago. Now, standing in his bedroom with only a slim shard of it in hand, he felt something like hope blossoming in his middle.

            Kneeling, Bruce moved to the bed post where he’d been carving a secret pocket. He’d painstakingly lined it with lead. It had previously held a piece of Kryptonite that Kal had destroyed just after the Fall. Now, it would hold the little shard in his hand.

            When the time was right, Bruce would use it.

            He couldn’t say how, or when, because Kal was as unpredictable in his attentions as ever, but he knew it had to be soon.

            He was already losing himself. Already slowly succumbing to the madness that chipped further and further at his psyche the more Kal took from him. Every time he thought there was nothing left to take, he was reminded that there was. There was always more.

            Pushing to a stand, Bruce dusted off the knees of his slacks then meandered over to the balcony windows. The moon hung fat and lazy over the veranda and should have been beautiful. It wasn’t.

            Nothing was anymore. Or was it ever?

            The ripple of curtains signaled Kal’s arrival before Bruce looked to confirm it and he carefully schooled his face as Kal drew near. As per his usual preferences, Kal kissed Bruce deeply, biting hard enough to make Bruce squirm away.

            “Bad day?” Bruce asked, swiping at his mouth.

            “Not particularly. I missed you.”

            Bruce folded his arms but said nothing in return. They both knew he hadn’t missed the other.

            “What if I took you out here?” Kal mused darkly, voice distant, “I could bend you over the rail, and make you scream beneath the rush of moonlight and cool skies.”

            Bruce fought a shiver with a snort of disdain, “Not exactly romantic.”

            Kal laughed, “It would be, if you were willing.”

            “You know I will never be.”

            Blue eyes, cold and calculating, assessed Bruce a moment then flicked away as he stepped back into the room. Any trace of whimsy was gone from his face. “I want you now.”

            Bruce stared back at him, but he knew his eyes had gone wide, “Not here. You said never here.”

            “Did I?” those eyes were cutting now, “That was before. This is now.”

            “You can’t change the rules like that.”

            “Are there any rules anymore?”

            A band of steel was clamping over Bruce’s chest and he was having trouble breathing. If Alfred came in, which he very well could, he would know everything. If one of the boys happened upon them. What if they saw what their father had been up to for the last six months? What if they knew that he’d not been strong enough? That he still wasn’t? That deep beneath it all, he was terrified? A trembling wreck of a man who could barely put up a fight anymore?

            “You promised.”

            Kal lifted a brow, “I wasn’t thinking clearly. I wanted your cooperation.”

            “And you got it. I gave it,” he tried not to remember the day in question but failed when a tremble wracked his frame, “they could see us.”

            “Let them. They’ll have to know eventually.”

            “Kal, please. Don’t do this.”

            Kal’s lips firmed into a mutinous expression, “I am your Lord. You don’t command me.”

            “Kal…I’m begging you…if they should come in…I don’t want that—you don’t either.”

            Kal cut him off as he waved a hand then closed the gap between them. Bruce never had enough time to react, so he did little more than push weakly at Kal before being tossed onto the mattress, face first, ass up. He was being stuffed down in a millisecond and stripped in the next.

            The bulk of Kal’s lust was finished within minutes.

            But he wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

            He dragged Bruce off the mattress by his hair, forcing him down to his knees in front of Kal.

            “No,” Bruce ground out, swaying away, wincing when the fist in his hair became excruciating. Kal had never asked this of him, but he was apparently feeling particularly angry. He wanted to punish Bruce. “Never.”

            “Do it, or I get the butler and make him join us.”

            Bruce had never felt more humiliated. Never more weak or frail. He obeyed silently, gagging and sputtering. Coughing when it was done until he threw up all over the Persian rug his mother had always favored. Sweat dripped down his face, over his chest and pooled in the hollow of his throat.

            He lay on his side for several minutes, eyes closed, aware of Kal above him watching and the puke only inches away. The feel of the rug under his cheek was grounding. The breath filling his lungs, a reminder that he was still here. He was alive and he needed to fight.

            But he didn’t want to. He wanted to give up.

            He wanted to die.

            Kal would start in on him again any moment. It never took long when he was like this. When nothing seemed to quench his hunger for Bruce.

            His eyes opened to slits and he was staring at the hidden compartment under his bed. Before he could think properly, before he could register what his body was doing, he was reaching to open it.

            Everything slowed down to a crawl. Bruce’s nails ripping on the latch to the shard of Kryptonite, the feel of a hand wrapping around his ankle to tug him backwards roughly. He opened the compartment and the shard fell into the carpeting.

            The hand disappeared from his ankle and a hard stab of adrenaline flooded Bruce. He grasped at the shard, flipping over and pushing to a fluid stand from years of training. Kal was already across the room, pale and wary, his eyes locked on the piece of rock in Bruce’s hand.

            And there was fear. Fear in his eyes, in his expression. In his stance.

            The room stank of it. Of Bruce’s and Kal’s mixing together roughly over the stink of puke and sex.

            Bruce’s pulse slammed in his ears, his neck and eyes. He could hardly see straight from it. Hardly keep sucking in one breath after the next.

            Bruce attacked.

            It wasn’t a clean fight. Nor was it delicate by any sense of the word. Bruce used every ounce of his strength to muscle Kal to the floor, to subdue the alien who by all right still outmuscled and weighed him. In the crush of skin on skin, Bruce lost parts of himself to it. He wasn’t aware of when he thrust the shard of Kryptonite into Kal’s chest. It sunk in shallowly and Kal screamed, bucking up under Bruce fiercely.

            Bruce reacted immediately. His attack was twice as vicious as any he’d ever dealt as Batman and not nearly neat enough. There was no control to the violence in his eyes or in his fists. No restraint. He pounded on the creature beneath him with wild abandon, a sour mix of glee, terror, and savage pain mixing in his gut to fuel him further.

            He didn’t notice when his hands grew wet with blood and bone began to give way to bone. He didn’t notice when the screaming creature beneath him finally fell silent and only his own ragged sobbing breath was filling the room.

            He didn’t notice when he started wailing, tears streaming in the blood wetting his face, blood that was not his own. Or when the hits became weak and feeble as his strength completely drained from him.

            Bruce didn’t stop beating Kal until hands were tugging at him. Until words were being murmured in his ears and he wanted to scream, “Too close!” but couldn’t get anything out but horrific sobs. He screamed at them. He tore at them until they had to lay on top of him.

            He cried harder, squeezing his eyes shut until blackness swarmed over his eyes and he felt himself sinking. He prayed he’d never wake up again.

 

            “Bruce,” the voice near his face was familiar. Soft and older. Like a pair of well-worn jeans. “Wake-up dear boy.”

            Bruce blinked open sandpaper lids and found the blurry image of Alfred at his side. Frowning, he stared blankly at his butler for a moment, then kept staring when flickers of the night before rushed over him. He felt horrendously weak and sick at once.

            “I killed him.”

            Alfred’s expression didn’t change. His eyes remained soft, his mouth turned down in its usual chastising scowl. “Yes.”

            “Do they know?”

            Alfred’s eyes flickered down to the med-bay bed he was resting on, “It was unavoidable. It was quite a scene.”

            “I—I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t. No,” Alfred murmured, reaching absently to brush hair off of Bruce’s scalp. Bruce flinched away and Alfred withdrew quickly. “They understand. They love you.”

             “I killed him, Alfred. I killed Clark.”

            He sounded robotic. Hollow. Empty.

            “No. You killed a monster. That thing wasn’t Clark.”

            Bruce stared up at the ceiling, feeling the burn of shame and sorrow equally. It was over. It was finally over. But he felt nearly worse than before. If he closed his eyes, he would still feel Kal’s blood on his kin. He would still feel the skin and bone under his knuckles. He would never be able to forget. He would never be able to move on.

            “I wish I died,” Bruce whispered, eyes suddenly burning with tears.

            Alfred’s hands were rough and warm on his, squeezing tightly, “No, never say that.”

            “I don’t know how to keep going like this.”

            “You can. One day at a time. You aren’t alone now.”

            Bruce shook his head, the hot tears sliding down his temples, “I’m still scared Alfred. Why am I still scared?”

            Alfred visibly stiffened, then carefully drew closer, “I will protect you. He’s gone now.”

            “He’s gone,” Bruce repeated, trying desperately to believe Alfred.

            “Yes, he’s gone. You aren’t going to hurt anymore. No one is. You’re safe Master Bruce.”

            “Safe.”

            “Yes, Master Bruce. I’m right here. I won’t leave your side.”

            “No.”

            “That’s very good sir. I’m right here.”

            “Right here,” Bruce repeated and his words sounded drugged. Sleepy.

            Alfred must be giving him another sedative. He couldn’t blame the man.

            “Alfred.”

            “Right here, dear boy. You are safe.”

            “Right here. Safe.”

            “Very safe.”

            Bruce gripped feebly at the hands that were still in his and drifted back into sleep. Kal was dead in his sleep too.


End file.
